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Thursday, January 27, 2011

Bearing Witness

In the meeting house this morning, silence. No machines thrumming, no rumble of moving earth. Six others sit in equal quiet. A blue jay caws from someplace distant. I look down to my clasped hands. The query runs through me: Where there are hatred, division, and strife, how are we instruments of reconciliation and love?

Pews creak. Blue pulses below my wrist, skin thin as hope. The jay cackles again, the same or another I cannot tell, but Franklin rises and slides the door bolt. No one speaks; it is understood our other Friends fled South through the excavated tunnels. Decades ago, the Sin Papeles built the tunnels and immigrated North. When they crossed the border, broken and naked, we sheltered and fed them in our safe houses until they ran down our schools, shot the police, and bankrupted our hospital. Their children hold the town captive.

Still, we hold Sin Papeles to the light.

To the light we hold our Friends traveling South. I hold my daughter, her husband and infant to the light. My cousin Lorraine, the kindergarteners I taught. I hold them all to the light.

A shadow in the window. A flutter of blue feathers. Footsteps rustle brittle leaves. Far off, the staccato of gunfire. I smell the smoke before I see it curl past the window. Muriel reaches for me and we grip hands.

We are instruments of peace, we whisper. We are instruments of love.

I hold us to the light.

***

A rather dystopian ditty inspired by the 52-250 Flash a Year Challenge theme: border town. I recently went to a Quaker service; it seems that hour of reflection resonated longer and deeper than I thought -- this is the second story spun from that visit.

A foot of snow in Maryland. The ground glitters in treacherous beauty. Peace, Linda

I guessed it was a Quaker meeting. A small congregation waiting for martyrdom or its equivalent — very well done and believable. The pastor at my church grew up in Guatemala and told similar stories of the civil war.

This is beautifully written, Linda. Blue Jays are beautiful too, but they can make very harsh sounds. I often see dissonance in your writing, and that makes it compelling. "Skin thin as hope" - that's a great phrase.

"No machines thrumming ... " except that gorgeous expressive one in your mind's eye, dear Linda ~ which *sees* the feel of peace. I was Quakering while reading this one, for the tone evoked greater reverence.

I must second Cathy's comparison to a fine painting. A miniature, I think. There is a sense of fragility not only in the situation and characters but in the form. It feels like you walked a thin, careful line to achieve this story, and you did it perfectly. Respect.

A nerve on fire...

Where I Hang

About Me...

By day, I'm an uptight and proper academic - you know, a publish or perish type who resides in tall towers with the likes of Rapunzul. In the evening, I morph into a lovable mom and wife, play with my children, hang with the hubby.
But when darkness falls and the house stills, I write.